


Point of View

by deathtothecrows



Category: Team Fortress 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 03:39:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18217691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathtothecrows/pseuds/deathtothecrows
Summary: A look into the minds of our favorite mercs





	Point of View

What does home feel like to you? Is it a person? A place? An idea? Do you have a home?

Maybe you do. Maybe you’re thinking of it right now. Maybe there’s a song stuck in your head. One you’ve heard a billion times before. Maybe there are summer memories, a favorite band playing loud and you love it, even though they’re the favorite of someone you love, not you yourself. Maybe it’s the laughter of the one you love. Maybe it’s a moonlit kiss. Maybe it’s the dark and the cold you were once so accustomed to. Maybe you’re still in that dark and that cold. And maybe you like it.

I have always loved the cold, but fire is what fascinates me. Imagine it with me. 

A flame, bright orange and flickering. It dances happily on a bright red candle with a twisted wick. The wax is in a squat, bumpy shape. It almost looks like a flower if you look at it from the top. You’re not looking at it from the top though. This is a profile view, watching that shimmering heat, warm even in cold air.

You’re not thinking of the surroundings of the candle, don’t pay attention to those. They’re meaningless when compared to the utter beauty of the flame. It dances there, happy with its lot in life, never wanting for anything but oxygen. It is happier than any of us could ever hope to be, and it lives with more peace and ease then we could ever hope for. This is my home.

\--------------------------------------------------

I am not who was speaking above, I am new to this story, but I promise not to disappoint. There will be nine of us, and we wish to share who we are, maybe you will find something about us that relates to you. Maybe you’ll learn something about yourself you didn’t know before. 

I am the medicine man, and I thoroughly enjoy my job. People rely on me for all of their bodily needs. I hold knowledge that takes control of my mind. Sometimes I am dangerous for how much I love my job, but it is the only way I can express myself. 

Not everyone likes my expression, but it is of no consequence to me, if they do not wish to be healed then they will simply die. I fear I am losing my mind.

Fear is a strong word, rather, I know that I am losing my mind. 

I don’t know what to do about it. My medical training is not in neurology or psychology, and I’m certainly no therapist. I own a copy of the DSM, but that’s about it. I don’t know what my affliction is, but it plagues my mind endlessly. I fear I won’t be able to undo the damage I’ve done. I have hurt those I love, even as I try my best to heal them. I cannot show my fears, or my frustrations, I feel that I am incapable. Nothing I do or say can convince them that my emotions are genuine, and I don’t know what to do. Only one other can understand what I mean, but he is often quite, unsure of what to say, despite how intelligent he is. 

Everyone has things they don’t know, ways of communicating that they can’t understand. For some it is worse than for others. All men are not created equal, not in this. Not in many things. But despite my unsound mind, and apparent lack of empathy, I soldier on. 

My friend, I hope you can see my honesty for truth.

\--------------------------------------------------

I do not know where to start in this. I hope you can forgive me for that, I am often unsure of things, but I am still proud of who I am. 

I’ll start with this, most humans are cruel creatures. Cruel in nature. Very few are any good, and even fewer are kind. Sometimes the good in a person can give way to a little bit of bad. Maybe the bad had been there for a while, but was held back by the individual. Maybe the bad is instantaneous, and the good person has no idea where it came from. 

I often see the worst in people, not because of pessimism, but because they show it to me, almost flaunting it, in a way. It’s disheartening and pains me greatly, but I do my best to keep my good on the surface, despite the hurt in my mind. 

I am called names because of my size, despite my muscle, my belly is all people can seem to focus on. They disrespect me and treat me poorly for it, but I know how to stay strong. The pain of what they say is only temporary. 

I know that they say these things out of their own insecurities, that’s not something they can control, but they could if they tried, I’m sure. If only they tried. 

Maybe I should teach them? Show them how to take control of their thoughts and feelings, show them how to express themselves. My friends call me names, but I will still love them. My lover teases me, but I know he means well. He too has his own insecurities, just like me. He cannot express himself to anyone but me, and he fears he is going mad. Everyone has a backstory to why they act the way they do. 

We should all be a little kinder to each other maybe. Then our hearts might not ache so much.

\--------------------------------------------------

I’ve hit rock bottom. 

I mess up so often, but somehow I still have a job. I drink to forget but I always remember. I hate my life, but fear death, just like everyone else. If it weren’t for the fact that my mother would be upset, I would’ve offed myself a long time ago. I’ve got nothing to live for. 

Nothing to live for.

To my mother I will always be a disappointment. I’m sure my grandfather and father would take her side if they were still alive. I only have three jobs, my dad had eight. How am I supposed to live up to that? 

How am I supposed to be better than the best?

The only thing I’m good for is blowing shit up. My highest paying job is blowing shit up. Sometimes I blow even that. I can’t measure up to my old man, I can’t. I just can’t.

I work hard and I try, I promise I do. But it’ll never be enough. 

I lost my eye, I lost my depth perception, I lost my ability to stay sober. I lost faith in myself, and you get to hear about it that must be great for you. I’m sure you love my ranting.

I know I need to figure my shit out but. I don’t want to. 

I  _ want _ to wallow in my self pity. I want to feel bad. And I want to feel nothing at all. So I drink.

I’m told I’m a happy drunk. Must be nice for him. I can’t remember what that’s like. To be happy sober. I wish I could. Then maybe I’d know what I want to do. 

Then maybe I’d know where I want to go. What I want to be

Then maybe I could take after my old man.

\--------------------------------------------------

People call me crazy. I hear them say it, behind my back. I know it’s probably true but I don’t give a rats ass. 

I worked hard my whole life with people telling me I couldn’t do this, couldn’t do that. I did it anyway. I took my life into my own hands and did what everyone else thought was impossible. And I did it over and over and over again. 

I flew across the damn ocean to fight those fascists. I fight and I win, in all that I do. I even managed to land a job where that was all that mattered. Nothing anybody says can stop me from doing something I want to do. 

Raccoons are dangerous? I have five of them that I keep as pets. Jumping from tall building will get me killed? As far as I can tell I’m still alive. Nobody else matters, I can do things myself. 

When I can’t do things by myself, though, I will always have my friends and they will always have my back. We’ve got this, and we’ve got it together. I’ll fight till I’m numb, till my fingers bleed and my back aches, and I know my friends will always have my back. 

My friends are the only ones who don’t think I’m crazy, and that’s all that matters to me. 

So whoever you are, and whatever you do, make sure you have friends that will have your back. Friends that will back-up your crazy ass and, despite everything, will stick by your side. Without them I’d be lost. The same would happen to you.

\--------------------------------------------------

I’m a fast talker but I’ll try to slow down for this stupid recorder. 

I, uh. I don’t really know how to read properly, dyslex-something-or-other makes it that way, so I’m recording this so that it can be written down. Hopefully none of my words are mangled up in the process. 

So here’s what’s up: I’m quick. I’m fast. I had to be, otherwise my brothers woulda beaten me up a whole lot more when I was a kid. 

I have a lot of brothers. 

That’s okay though, they’re all great I promise. They all loved me a tone, and that’s all I care about. So long as someone is good enough to love you, you’d better love em’ back. Even if they give you hell for it. Even if they give you hell in general. Just keep lovin’ em’.

I used to have these, uh, these terrible nightmares. Scary stuff, and I mean real scary. The sorta shit that made me wet my bed, although I ain’t proud of that, trust me. My brothers were usually there to comfort me at night, though they obviously made fun of me for it in the morning. 

I still have those nightmares, all too often I wake up, scared and alone. I don’t live with my brothers anymore. I room with my friends, sure, but they’re not brothers to me. At least, they aren’t yet. They’re certainly getting there. 

I’m always afraid, afraid of what my brain shows me when I’m asleep, none of my buddies know that, but they don’t mind too much when I wake up screaming. I suppose I’m lucky they don’t just kick me to the curb for disrupting their sleep. 

I guess they kinda are like my brothers. 

\--------------------------------------------------

I’ve always tried to be confident, in myself and my abilities. And to some extent I am. I know that I’m good at what I do. I know that I’m the best at what I do. But that doesn’t help me much when I have no idea how to talk to people.

Social anxiety is a hell of a drug, gets my blood pumping like nothing else. I don’t ever know what to say or what to do. Social calls are left ignored, and I’ve only been to a party once for a friend of mine’s birthday. That was hell.

Animals are easy, they exhibit emotion, but without the complications and malice that human interaction has. I wish people were, easy. Or that the whole world was all animals, no people. Or that I was an animal? I don’t know. 

All I know is that I absolutely loathe talking to others. 

There are so many subtle little things that go along with human interaction, and I always fear that I’m going to get one - or all of them - wrong. And then maybe I’ll accidentally offend the person I’m talking to, or maybe they’ll laugh at me.

I’m very glad my job involves no actual social interaction, otherwise I’d be in deep shit. My mates are all understanding of my ‘condition’, so they leave me alone, but I wish it wasn’t always that way. I wish I could talk to people and hold quiet conversation with somebody I like. I don’t want to be alone anymore.

Maybe someday I won’t have to be. 

\--------------------------------------------------

I don’t know who I am anymore. 

I change my name and my face far to often to remember. Shifting from one identity to the next like the changes in the seasons. Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring. Each new me fading away only to be replaced by someone new. I’ve forgotten who I am. 

My “friends”, all seem to know who I am. They’ve seen me shift, but say that I stay somewhat the same. 

They say I’m uptight, and that I’m a romantic. That I enjoy books like I always do, and still prefer solitude. They also say that I smoke too much, but paper and tobacco is a calming combination, so I don’t see the harm in it. Outside of the physical ailments it can cause.

It calms my nerves, that’s all that matters.

I don’t think they notice that  _ I  _ change, and frequently. I take on new persona’s because it’s my job, but I don’t remember what it’s like to truly laugh and be yourself. 

I don’t know what it’s like to be myself because I haven’t been myself for a long time. I simply haven’t had the time to. 

What’s it like? Being who you want to be, not who you have to be in order to survive in this wretched world. Having the freedom to express oneself, all your troubles, worries, fears doubts, laid clear on the table. Not bundled up inside. 

You’re lucky. 

\--------------------------------------------------

I suppose I’m the last one here. I’ll try to finish on a strong note.

I’m smart, or I’m supposed to be. I guess if you have a handful of PhD’s and the ability to build whatever you want then you’re pretty much considered a genius. But everyone has different levels of genius, and I’m not all that special. I treat others with respect and do my best to be calm and level headed. 

I’m sure it sounds like I’m tooting my own horn here, but I’m trying to be honest.

I’m not sure what I can put here that hasn’t already been said but know this: each story you’ve read today is unique and important to the individual. Each and every one of those stories is from someone important to me. They’re my family. 

None of us gets to read what the others have written, but I know all of them pretty well, I have a fairly good idea of it. They’re all strong and independent, but have their weaknesses, just like everyone else. They are some of the best, and they treat each other as such, even if it doesn’t always show. They are human after all. And aren’t we all?

I don’t know what sort of lesson you’re supposed to get out of this, or if maybe this was all a test set up to gauge how we see each other by the administration. One way or another though, I’m glad we got to do this. It’s good to write something down every now and then. 

I feel like I’ve said all I have to say, so for now I’ll say “have a good day”. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Did they all participate?”

The Administrator stares down at me, her eyes as grey as a storm. Captivating, all knowing. Unfeeling. Her face offers quiet but persistent indifference, as if I were no more than a flea. Why I work for this woman, I do not know. Obligation perhaps.

“Yes they did. Some were more… forthcoming than others, but they all spoke from the heart. I have each of their essays here.” I hand her the nine pieces of paper, some of them are in my own handwriting because quite a few of these men never learned how to read properly, and I had to dictate for them. 

The Administrator barely glances at them, tilting her head slightly towards her desk. I place them upon its unforgiving steel surface, a reflection of its owner, and turn back towards her. 

Behind her there are monitors, hundreds of them, all depicting live feeds of places throughout the base. In each of the boy’s rooms, and in every rec room and every hallway. On monitor nine the runner is laughing with the fire-lover. On monitor forty-seven the sharp-eyed man is drinking coffee from the whole pot in an empty kitchen, looking incredibly exhausted. Monitor seventy-two shows the man who always smokes cigarettes no matter the hour. He is sitting in a very plush red chair, reading a book quietly and sipping red wine.

The Administrator catches me staring and raises a razor sharp eyebrow, inquisitive. I bow my head and begin to turn to the door, muttering about what work I have left to do. 

As I step over the exit I hear her call my name. I turn cautiously, on edge. Afraid I’d done something wrong, something that I would pay for very, very dearly. Instead, this intimidating force gives me what is probably supposed to be a smile, and in her perfectly clear voice she tells me, “Good job.”

It was a good day. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for my creative writing class and we're not technically allowed to do fanfiction so it's intentionally vague. Let me know who you think everyone is in the comments!


End file.
